


worth the wait

by rievu



Series: on the steep waves [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, journeys and learning how to meet in the middle, self-worth and self-love and self-discovery, worth the weight and worth the wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21877456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: The last thing that Isabela asks her mother before she leaves is a simple thing. “Was I worth the weight?” she asks, voice small and heart thumping like a darting, rabbit-flutter beat. Isabela’s mother regards her carefully, and Isabela feels like her mother’s gaze is scouring her face in its intensity. Her mother’s answer is also a simple thing. “No,” her mother tells her in the span of a single breath.// how isabela and josephine learn to trust, to wait, to love
Relationships: Isabela/Josephine Montilyet
Series: on the steep waves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576051
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is set after the events of ["honey-warm tides"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19400461). it's not necessary to read that fic before this one, but it would contextualize some of the dialogue in this fic. either way, hope you enjoy!

Isabela hears the hiss and sputter of a candle’s wick and the scratch of old graphite against parchment. Her mother calculates the price of her, marks down each part of Isabela, translates it into riches, and rounds up the sum with a kind of cleverness wrought from dishonesty and survival. 

Isabela doesn’t sleep that night. Instead, she slips out of the window and into the slick Rivaini night that has too much humidity sewn up into it. She almost wishes she could slip out of her own skin and dive straight into the ocean — become something other than the her that is barely worth the bags and bolts of gold and silks — but she can’t. Still, the taste of the ocean salt on the breeze and the low-hanging crescents of the distant moons keep her company. There’s a quiet corner of the docks near her house, and that’s where she sits: feet dangling off the edge of the pier and toes dipping into the eddying waves of the sea. The moons’ reflections are distorted in the choppy mirror of the sea, and Isabela squints to try and catch a glimpse of her own face. There’s nothing but a vague face-like shape as a reflection, but the next incoming wave makes it shake.   
  
Perhaps this is what her mother sees in her: a vague, nebulous shape that easily flickers and almost disappears in the face of something new. Isabela knows enough of her mother to know that the woman never takes a deal without knowing she’ll get the better end of it. That means selling her either was a rather inconsequential decision to her mother or the price quantified her and more. Isabela isn’t sure which possibility she likes better.   
  
She swings her legs, flicking water out towards the horizon. Her fingers twitch, and Isabela quietly yearns for the days when she used to roam around with her mother, weaving lies and duplicity as easy as breathing and picking up the gold. She wonders if she can steal enough to pay her way back to her mother, but then again, she doesn’t know if she can live with someone who sold her away so readily.

Isabela spends the rest of the night watching as the moons slowly start to sink in the sky — pale shapes in the dark, splintered sky that are shaped like the crescents of her fingernails — and she stretches her hands up in the air, almost as if she could claw the very moons and stars out of the sky with her nails alone. But that’s not true, and there is no other place for her to go after that aside from her cold bed.   
  
The last thing that Isabela asks her mother before she leaves is a simple thing. “Was I worth the weight?” she asks, voice small and heart thumping like a darting, rabbit-flutter beat.    
  
Isabela’s mother regards her carefully, and Isabela feels like her mother’s gaze is scouring her face in its intensity. Her mother’s answer is also a simple thing. “No,” her mother tells her in the span of a single breath.   
  
Even years after the deal, Isabela has wondered what her mother meant by that. Isabela’s mother was never one to take on a poor deal, and if Isabela wasn’t worth the gold and silks and pearls piled atop the scratched-up dinner table, she doesn’t know if she was cheaper or more expensive than that. Isabela isn’t sure which one is the truth, but that’s a secret left lost in the past, stuck amidst the grains of time. 

Now, she’s braced against the railing of her ship, watching the sky as yet another sunset dips below the horizon and bottomless sea. The scythes of the moons rise up in response to the sun’s daily death, and night blankets the sea. Isabela curls her hand into a small fist, crumpling up the paper she was holding. 

A letter. Varric never does forget to send any of those. This time, it’s addressed from Haven. He’s delightfully vague, and that makes Isabela wonder if he’s even there on his own volition. She thought they all agreed to make a wide berth around the Chantry to keep Hawke safe. Varric seems to have taken the exact opposite path by diving straight into a Chantry organization. Well, not that it’s particularly sponsored now with the explosion at the Conclave. Whoever did that looks like they took a page out of Anders’s book. There’s nothing quite like an explosion to gain the baleful, watchful eye of the Chantry.

The crescent moons grow brighter as the night continues onward, and Isabela finally straightens up from the railing. She works out all the kinks caught in her back and stretches out her muscles. Her mind is full of memories tonight. Dark streets in Lowtown with the taste of old ale on her tongue and Hawke’s laughter in her ears, nights on the Wounded Coast with salt on the air and Varric weaving another tale, Fenris’s terribly dusty mansion and the sharp taste of a dandelion salad Merrill made for them all. But tonight, those memories have far older ones mixed into them. Memories of gold and silk, almost making the table bend under the weight of them, and the sound of a woman calculating out the price of a girl and quantifying it out with a baleful lens and a dangerous mind. Even though it’s been years, the memories are still bright like gleaming gold and colored like another Rivaini night.

Isabela tries to shake those memories out of her mind by mentally casting them into the sea, but it’s too late. She lifts her hand up and stares at the crumpled paper, following the lines of the original crease where Varric folded it up to place inside the envelope. She can hear her mother’s voice in her mind as well as the real, mournful cry of a sleepless albatross still riding the breeze along the sea. She’s left with too many questions on her mind, both entrenched in the present and the past, and there’s very little she can do about it.

* * *

Josephine almost dies in Haven.

She’s made the exceptionally poor decision to run back to her office while everyone is sprinting to the tunnels. The barricade splinters, and two red templars manage to make their way into the Chantry. If it wasn’t for Cassandra and her shield, Josephine would have been impaled on the wrong end of a sword. Cassandra beats them back and kills them while Josephine skirts around them to slam something against the door as a makeshift barricade. She does so with regret and fear between her gritted teeth, but she and Cassandra reinforce the door once more before making a run for it.

Josephine’s heart beats like a frantic, winged thing against the bars of her ribcage, but she’s safe and sound and alive. At a cost though. She wasn’t able to retrieve all her documents in time from her office before those templars made it in. She’s alive though and panting in the cold, dark tunnels snaking beneath the once-whole town of Haven. Cassandra is shouldering her way towards the front to meet up with Cullen again, and she watches Cassandra veritably disappear amongst the terrified, shaking crowd. Josephine’s inclined to join their ranks, but the sound of a throat clearing behind her gains her attention. Varric catches up with her and says, “Ruffles, why were you so late? You were one of the last people in. We were looking for you, you know, Vivienne and Sera and I.”

“I tried to salvage some of our documents,” Josephine says. She runs a hand through her hair, heedless of how her bun unravels itself. “Our connections, some documents from the Divine and from neighbouring nobles, some deeds I was planning to bring to some others in order to curry their favor for the Inquisition. All incredibly  _ valuable, _ and now, over half of them are lost to the snow.”

“Look on the bright side,” Varric tries. “At least you’re alive. Where are we going to find another Josephine Montilyet?”

“Never,” Leliana says as she passes by. She looks distracted, and Josephine knows her well enough to tell that her mind is racing through a thousand different thoughts right now. Of course she must be — Josephine feels very much the same — but Leliana takes the time to examine Josephine. She finally tucks one stray strand of hair behind Josephine’s ear before she flicks her on the forehead and softly says, “Never do that again, Josie. Today, we have lost a Herald. Do not make me lose one of my close friends in addition to that either.”

Josephine catches Leliana’s hand before she pulls away entirely and gives it a tight squeeze. Leliana exhales out a low sigh that coalesces in front of her in a soft puff of white breath before she turns and leaves to take inventory of whoever’s left. Josephine watches her leave, and Varric gives her a pat. “You’re here now, and that’s what really matters, Ruffles,” he tells her. 

“I know, I know, but I still wish I managed to salvage something  _ more, _ ” Josephine admits. “Now, I will have to personally see to every noble and gain those connections back with every handful I can. That is not something you can do with a letter. This is now something that I will have to do in person, through dinners and dances and socials that I have spent the last several years doing in order to cultivate what I lost today.” 

“They still know your name and reputation, right?” Varric asks.

Josephine nods but tells him, “Which is something that has been sullied by the inception of the Inquisition and now, the devastation that is Haven.” She covers her face with her hands, pressing the pads of her fingers firmly against her temples. “How am I going to travel around to Orlais and Ferelden and the Free Marches and beyond that?” she groans. “Will I have to learn how to fly or swim through the seas myself?” 

Josephine knows better than to complain, but right now, she feels like this merits a mention. The cold starts to numb her skin, and despite the thicker clothing she purchased to endure through Haven’s weather and climate, she aches all over. The soles of her feet in her ill-fitting boots are starting to burn as she trudges through the cobbled tunnels, and now that they’re approaching the surface once more, the chill in the air deepens cruelly. At least the sheer number of people in such a tight, enclosed space is adding some sort of body heat to the crowd.

Varric wraps his coat more tightly around himself as they make the ascent up. “Well, I think I have an idea,” he offers. “But we’ll have to wait until we settle down and find a new place for the Inquisition.” 

“Can we do that?” Josephine says. She’s startled into looking at Varric, and she blinks at him. “Without the Herald, that is.” 

Varric’s expression dims, but he quietly replies, “I believe Birdie’s gonna make her way back to us.” 

“You believe so?” 

“I  _ know _ Birdie’s gonna find her way back.”

Josephine lowers her gaze and stares at her feet as they plod upwards. By now, the first few people in their motley procession have clambered their way out fo the tunnels and into the open air. Josephine shivers, but she tries to picture Lavellan making her way back through the snow. Lavellan always had an uncanny way of coming back to them whether it be through the wreckage of the Conclave or the nightmarish future of Redcliffe. 

Varric clicks his tongue and nudges Josephine as he says, “Don’t look so down, Ruffles. Lose hope, and you lose it all.”

Josephine lets out a soft chuckle and feels her lips curve up into a wry smile. “Wise words, Master Tethras,” she tells him.

Varric twists his face up into a grimace as he mutters, “Geez, Ruffles. Just Varric is fine. You sound like Solas when you say that or my editor when she’s furious at me.” 

“Varric then,” Josephine concedes. “You’re still quite wise, you know.” 

“Comes with experience,” Varric snorts. “I slogged through more than my fair share of shit with Hawke. The good old days, huh.” He pauses to tap his chin before he adds, “Although, I guess times are definitely dire if I’m calling the times in Kirkwall and the Wounded Coast and the Deep Roads — all with Hawke, mind you — the good old days. We went through some shit.”

“Even if the rumors aren’t true, it still seems like a wild experience,” Josephine muses. “A lifetime’s worth of adventure.” 

Varric shrugs and says, “Every rumor has a seed of truth to it. I should know; I started a large majority of them. But either way, I think we’re in for a whole different kind of adventure.” 

Now, Josephine and Varric both squint their eyes since it’s their turn to crawl out of the tunnels. The snow reflects light off it in such a blinding way that Josephine even puts her hand up to try and give some shade and space for her eyes to adjust. Varric claps his hands together and says, “Well, there’s that. But back to the original topic. Once the Inquisition and all these people settle down and we figure out a way out of this, I’ll see to finding you a way to get around, Ruffles.” He gives her a little wink that gets a giggle out of Josephine. “You can count on me.”

Josephine turns her gaze over to the expanse of the Frostback Mountains and feels that familiar despair nip at her heels. She forces that thought away, and in turn, she faces forward and faces  _ hope _ before she replies, “Thank you, Varric.” 

* * *

Some scoff when Isabela says that she knows Josephine of House Montilyet.

The name of Montilyet is not one commonly spoken among the Antivan docks anymore. A family fallen from grace several ages ago, and if Isabela knows anything from her days in Kirkwall, the memory of the nobles is a long, storied thing marked down in tax documents and gossip spoken around the same circles, passed down from generation to generation. The stain on the Montilyet family name is an old and enduring one, but it’s still a noble house and a noble name. 

Isabela merely smiles a crooked little smile when people scoff at that. One end of the smile lilts upwards with amusement. Oh, she remembers Josephine of House Montilyet well. 

She met the woman first on the edge of the boundless sea, right against the Antivan coasts. Isabela was standing on the rickety wooden boards of the docks when a woman dressed in gilt and satin paced across the docks, demanding a ride to Ferelden from a slaver allied with the Felicisima Armada. Poor decision if there ever was one, but Isabela can’t judge. She’s made poorer judgements in the past. But she remembers Josephine for her knowledge of the sea and the ships sailing across its surface. The clever glint in her eye, the steel and silverite of her nerves, and the way she did not back down.

So, Isabela gave her a ride to Ferelden. She just didn’t know she would be attached to the noblewoman at the end of it. 

Isabela doesn’t know how she manages to get so attached to people every now and then. Worse than a barnacle latched onto the bottom of a ship, worse than an anchor lodged firmly in the deep sands of the shore. She followed Hawke around from the shitholes of Lowtown to the jagged paths of the Wounded Coast, and she wonders if she’s about to do the same to Miss Montilyet. 

She’s docked in Amaranthine with the  _ Siren’s Call II  _ bobbing up and down in the chilly grey waters of the Fereldan seas. “Admiral, you sure about this?” her first mate asks her. “You don’t seem like one to join up with the Inquisition.” 

Her first mate is a tall, strong Tal-Vashoth woman that goes by the name of Adaar. Isabela had her wariness about the woman when she first met her — too many memories of a book she shouldn’t have stolen and an entire city paying the consequences for it — but Adaar is far from the regular Qunari Isabela’s seen over the years. Adaar knows the storms like the back of her hand and hauled the  _ Siren’s Call II  _ out of her fair share of storms with a sweep of her magical staff. Now, Isabela knows Adaar to be even and steady, almost like a second version of Aveline but with a decidedly greater tolerance for Isabela’s choice of clothing (or lack thereof). 

Isabela shrugs and says, “Am I ever sure about anything?”

“No because you have a terrible tendency of avoiding your problems and running away from them,” Adaar says without looking up from her map and navigation tools. “Does this have anything to do with that Antivan noblewoman we brought to Denerim that one time? Isn’t she the ambassador for the Inquisition now?” 

“Now, now, no need for the brutal honesty this early in the morning,” Isabela chides. She taps a finger against Adaar’s map and says, “I need to be more drunk for bold-faced honesty sessions, you know. It’s not good for my morale otherwise. Besides, I’m not going there for a fuck. I’m going because one of my dearest, darling-est friends  _ personally _ requested for my help, and for once, it’s not Aveline biting down her pride to ask me for some delivery requests.”

“You didn’t hire me to be nice, you hired me to be honest,” Adaar drawls out. She straightens up and snaps the case of her tools shut before she rolls up the map with deft fingers. “I’ll keep a watch on the  _ Siren’s Call II _ , but it can’t go alone without a captain forever, Admiral. Remember that.” 

“Snippy, snippy,” Isabela tells her before she sweeps out of the door with one smooth, expansive gesture. The Fereldan air is chilly, and it bites at Isabela’s exposed skin once she’s out of her little cabin. She glances up at the grey skies. No storm in sight. This is just how Ferelden normally looks: grey and gloomy. She would much rather gallivant around in the sapphire seas bordering Rivain and Antiva than in these waters, but she’s got an Inquisition and a dwarf waiting for her. 

Varric sounded humorous as always in his letter, but in the spaces between the words of his handwriting, Isabela could see the way the tails of his letters shook with some sort of unknown trepidation. Isabela narrows her eyes as she surveys the Amaranthine coast before she saunters off the deck of her ship. There’s a lot of work waiting for her no matter what it is. It always seems to shake out that way when it comes to something her friends want her to do. He didn’t specify on whatever it was supposed to be, but Varric mentioned the ambassador. Isabela supposes that there’s something that requires her specific skill set over the other contacts Varric was likely to have. 

Whatever it is, it’ll be a good opportunity to catch up with an old friend and perhaps meet a familiar acquaintance of hers again.

* * *

Josephine wants to snap a Nevarran ambassador’s neck, but she slides that sentiment deep down in the crevices of her composure to smile instead. She cocks her head just so and gives the ambassador the blandest smile she can muster up before she says, “The Inquisition is not interested in investing in the activities of the Mortalitasi since they have not offered sufficient reasoning for doing so. Please understand that we are fighting a war on limited resources. Inquisitor Lavellan and the rest of the Inquisition must dedicate those resources carefully. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Of course, Lady Montilyet, but—” the Nevarran ambassador begins. He’s cut off by the sound of the door slamming open. The two of them look up to see Lavellan who smiles a slow, placid smile and waves at Josephine. 

“The wind must have blown too hard. We do live on a mountain now,” she says as she saunters over to Josephine on bare feet. She glances over and examines the Nevarran ambassador who tries to straighten up and puff up with too much pomp and circumstance. Bad choice. Josephine knows all too well that Lavellan hates things like that. It’s one of the reasons why she refuses to go to Orlais as often as the others tell her to. She pulls out a letter worn to a soft yellow and stained with a series of brown splatters. “There is an important message for you,” Lavellan tells her. She looks over to the Nevarran ambassador and lifts her lips just enough to reveal the points of her teeth in a smile. “The Nevarran ambassador is part of the Mortalitasi, yes? I am  _ sure _ that one of our mages, Dorian of House Pavus from Tevinter, can entertain you. Both of you are talented with necromancy. One of our horses recently died on the journey up, so there is that skeleton to toy around with. Excuse us, sir.” 

Lavellan curls her hand around Josephine’s wrist and tugs her out of the room without any other explanation or word. When the door slams shut once more — and Josephine watches Lavellan’s hand light up with a touch of magic that makes the door slam harder — Lavellan turns to Josephine with a cheeky grin. “I know you were doing important ambassador business, but I felt like that was necessary,” she says. “Cassandra has told me terrible things about her country’s ambassadors.” 

“It wasn’t a difficult situation, per say,” Josephine chuckles. “It’s just that he was rather dense. I don’t think he understands the concept of explaining his situation. He just keeps demanding gold from our coffers to aid the Mortalitasi in whatever it is they’re planning.” 

“Dorian will keep him busy,” Lavellan says with confidence. “That man has the ability to talk until the end of the world.” 

Josephine almost laughs at the small quip, but she quietly realizes that it’s not a joke at all. The world really was on the verge of ending when Lavellan entered that separate future at Redcliffe, and sometimes, Josephine forgets that their Inquisitor has seen too many brinks and too many deaths on their watch. She shivers even though there’s not a wind, and Lavellan turns to look at her with a questioning glance. “Are you cold?” she asks. “I can make some fire to make you warm if you need it.” 

Josephine shakes her head. “No, thank you, Inquisitor,” she says. “What was the message about?”

Lavellan shrugs. “Varric said it was important,” she tells her. “I am going to the stables now. Let me know if you need me to distract the Nevarran ambassador again.” She bounds off towards the stables with her bare feet and dances around the people starting to fill the new-flowering courtyard. 

Josephine blinks and watches her leave with a touch of bemusement before she looks down at the letter. She runs her nail underneath the already-broken wax seal which looks like it was pressed down with the rim of a bottle of ale rather than a proper seal. The paper inside is wrinkled and stained, and some of the stains have faint hints of dried salt around them. “Sea water,” Josephine muses. The handwriting is a free scrawl that spreads out bold and dark on the paper, but her eyes focus on the signature at the very bottom.

_ Isabela. _

“Oh, Varric,” she breathes out. “Surely this isn’t the help you mentioned at Haven.” 

Josephine presses the paper to her heart as she cranes her head up to get a glimpse of the sky. It’s a pale blue, and it’s not quite the same kind of sapphire blue of her summer-sweet home. It reminds her of that day though. She needed to get to Ferelden desperately after receiving a letter from Leliana about the Inquisition, and she got there on the  _ Siren’s Call II _ with Admiral Isabela of the infamous Felicisima Armada. 

She also had a fling with the admiral — a passionate one, flavored with bad ale and jokes whispered to each other in the shadows of a night at sea — and Josephine doesn’t know if Isabela cares to continue. A voice at the back of her mind wonders if Isabela even cares to remember. The woman is charismatic enough, and Josephine knows that Isabela has experience. Maybe it was just a short romp to the woman, but Josephine liked the way Isabela touched her, liked the way Isabela spoke and told stories, and liked the way Isabela would lapse into silence and gaze out into the inscrutable sea and star-splintered night. 

Josephine knows it’s foolish to get her hopes up, but she does as she clutches the paper close. This isn’t some sort of Antivan fairy tale with dashing pirates and Crows leaping from rooftop to rooftop and gold spilling over into the streets to turn into fantastical dreams like dresses spun out of gold and wedding veils woven out of bronze. This is cold, hard reality, and Josephine  _ knows _ that.

But she hopes.


	2. Chapter 2

Isabela stands in the courtyard of Skyhold and marvels at the strangeness of it all. She’s far in-land, further than she’s particularly comfortable with, and the crisp mountain air stings her salt-soaked lungs with every breath she takes. She spots Varric striding across the sparse grass. She’s not hard to miss. She wore her most ostentatious hat for this, after all. Can’t come to a reunion looking like a wet flounder.

Varric comes in for a giant hug, and although Isabela laughs and jokes along, she can’t help but feel like she’s walking into something dangerous. It feels like coming back to Kirkwall after stealing the tome. Isabela’s always been one to flee from her problems, to dive into the sea to chase after the next sunset and twilight rather than deal with the pains and hassles of the world behind her. After all, she’s never been worth the wait nor the weight of whatever it is that lies heavy on her shoulders, so she shrugs it off at any opportunity. But here? Here with Varric and now, supposedly  _ Hawke _ herself somewhere in Skyhold, Isabela feels like she’s facing the world’s problems and being tasked to fix it. 

“Where have you been frequenting, Rivaini? I was surprised when you wrote back a reply,” Varric tells her after he pulls away.

“Oh, Varric, perish the thought,” Isabela drawls. She tips her hat to him and continues, “Of course I would reply. It just takes some time. I hear you’ve been busy. You seem to have a penchant for picking up heroes out of the gutter and dusting them off before sticking them in the spotlight.”

Perhaps she went a touch too far with that. The joking lilt to her voice doesn’t stop Varric from wincing, and now that Isabela’s this close to Varric, she can see the new wrinkles lining the space around his eyes and the dark circles deepening in his wan skin. Her friend is wearing out underneath the weight of the world, just like the companions he tends to keep.

Varric shakes his head and sighs, “Don’t tell me, I already know. I don’t know how I end up in these things whether it be Hawke’s business, this Inquisition thing, or your tab at the Hanged Man.”

Which reminds her: she never did quite pay off that tab in full. Whenever she trotted back into the pub to pay, she always found that Varric or Hawke picked up the tab. Kind-hearted, both of them. But Isabela pushes that thought aside to croon, “Why, Varric, are you calling me a hero?” 

Varric arches a brow and says, “You could be.”

“Perish the  _ thought.” _

Varric shoves his hands into his pockets when Isabela says that. Isabela, a hero? Even she can’t believe it herself. She prefers to be the roguishly handsome pirate that swoops in and out of the plot at opportune times. She’s not one of Varric’s heroes between the pages of the books that he writes, and she doesn’t know why he would imply that. Still, Varric says, “Well, Hawke’s up on the parapets. We could go talk to her and have a good old drink at the tavern.”

Isabela saunters further into Skyhold and tosses a quick gaze around. There are more people here than she expected for a rogue Chantry organization. “What, the Herald’s…” Isabela says before she squints at the buildings in mid-renovation. “Rest? What is that sign? It looks like Andraste dragged in a wet rag that’s supposed to represent some sort of soggy corpse. Who made that sign and who  _ allowed _ it? I’d rather take the Hanged Man over that.”

Varric snorts, “Birdie hates it too. She’s trying to use her authority to rename it the Golden Nug. She’s already got the spymaster’s support for it too.”

Isabela pauses, hands folded behind her back and her head cocked towards Varric. “Birdie?” she asks.

Varric coughs a little bit. “Lavellan. Inquisitor Lavellan, I mean,” he says.

“You and your nicknames, Varric,” Isabela says with a shake of her head. She narrows her eyes but keeps her nonchalant pose the same. This is a look meant for Varric and Varric alone as she says in a soft, low tone, “Why is Hawke here? Didn’t we all promise to keep her location a secret for her safety?” She raises one arched eyebrow as she continues, “I went all over the Antivan and Rivaini coast, spreading rumors that I had Hawke in my bed with gold heaped all over her and tits out.” She can’t help but snort at the memory. “Fun time, that was, but that’s beside the point. Why did you bring her as well? Are we having a little reunion in Skyhold now? A little party for old time’s sake? Then you’d have to invite Aveline and Merrill and Sebastian and Fenris and…” Isabela falters. “And Anders.” 

The teasing tone she tried to inject into her voice falls flat at the mention of his name. She’s always up for supporting some good old fashioned freedom, and that was certainly a concept veritably hanging off Anders’s lips in nearly every conversion. Especially those regarding mages. Isabela just doesn’t like stirring up old memories —  _ bad _ memories — and every time she sees the shivering, shaking, soot-covered mess of Kirkwall and its people, she can’t help but associate the sight with him. She’s not sure how to feel about it, but the mere mention of his name is always bound to bring up that connection to the explosion more than anything else. That name gets Sebastian riled up like nothing else, and it’s a name that’s incendiary at best with Chantry-connected folk. Judging from the dimmed expression in Varric’s eyes, he’s thinking about the same thing. 

“I had no part in it,” Varric says with both his hands up, palms facing Isabela. “She was the one who demanded to come herself. She said she had to clean up her own mess.”

Isabela clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “So Hawke of her to do so,” she tells him. She can see Hawke doing that though. The woman has a heart overflowing with too much goodwill knotted up with too much guilt and not enough self-preservation. Isabela can’t fathom why Hawke would willingly come back to an organization so closely connected with the Chantry. Granted, she didn’t believe it when they announced their shiny new Inquisitor as being Dalish, but it seems like desperate times are calling for desperate measures. 

Varric rolls his eyes and says, “You can say that again.” He doesn’t say it, but Isabela knows both him and Hawke long enough to know that he’s worried. Excessively so, at that.

“I suppose she’s going to go bounding all over Thedas to fix someone else’s problem,” she tuts.

The wrinkle in Varric’s brow creases as he says, “I tried to convince her to not come, but she wouldn’t have any of it.”

“She’s too stubborn to listen to you, Varric. Surely you know that by now,” Isabela says with a laugh. The laugh sounds a bit hollow to her. She taps her chin and changes the subject by saying, “The more important question that I have is how she managed to claw her way here without letting Fenris know.”

“Oh, he knows,” Varric says grimly.

Isabela blinks at that. “Then why isn’t the dear man here?” she asks. 

Oh, she doesn’t like the look on Varric’s face. 

Without waiting for the answer, she sighs, “I suppose something must have happened between them. Hawke’s in a shitty mood, huh? Trouble between lovebirds always end up that way. I might wait for the drinking party with Hawke until later tonight then. You never go up on parapets if you’re not planning on a good brooding.”

Finally, she earns a more genuine laugh out of Varric, and the dwarf sounds like himself again as he grumbles. “You make her sound like Fenris.”

“Am I wrong?”

Varric grudgingly replies, “No.”

“So, my dear dwarf friend,” Isabela says as she swings her arms with each stride forward. “What did you call me here for?” She waggles her eyebrows at Varric. “Is it finally my time to shine and have a romantic night with your lovely Bianca? Should I start stripping now? I had to climb a  _ mountain _ for this, Varric.”

“No, not that,” Varric says. The smile on his face has gone from crooked and weary to genuine and true. “Good to see you haven’t changed, Isabela.”

“Oh, we all change, Varric,” Isabela replies lightly. She tries to add some levity back to the truth by saying, “I’ve gotten prettier, you know.”

Varric chuckles, but he sobers as he says, “I asked you here because I needed someone who knew the sea.”

“Mmm,” Isabela hums noncommittally. She thinks about the sea, raging and inconstant and slick like the humid Rivaini nights. She also thinks about the last journey she took to Ferelden: a journey taken for a women dressed in gilt. “Someone told me I was like the sea once, you know?” Isabela suddenly says.

“What, because of your temper?” Varric quips.

“Terribly rude, Varric, and also not true,” Isabela tuts. “You know more people with more volatile tempers than me. No, they called me  _ tidal. _ Can you believe that?”

Varric shrugs, “Maybe. That’s certainly poetic though. Anyways, I asked you to come here because there’s someone that needs to travel up and down the coast on a series of diplomatic visits.” 

“Ah,” Isabela says. The sound is soft and slight, but her heart flutters into a small, unbidden thrill.

“Her name is—”

Isabela doesn’t wait for him to finish because she knows the answer already, beating in the rhythm of the seas in her heart. “Josephine Cherette Montilyet,” she says in a single breath.

“How did you know?” Varric asks rather suspiciously.

“I know a lot of people, and also, you vaguely referred to her in your letter, which, by the way, was rather inconsistent of you,” Isabela says with a wave of her hand. She doesn’t want to tell him the entire truth. Varric becomes rather insufferable with these matters, and although Isabela’s always liked helping him tease other lovebirds like Hawke, she’s not interested in being the recipient of such things. Instead, she twists the subject slightly to the left by saying “You’re an author, a crafter of words if you want to get fancy about it. So vague for an author. Your editor would choke if I ever showed her.”

“Please don’t,” Varric says with a tight grimace. Bingo. Isabela smiles slyly at him, and Varric shakes his head. “But can you do it?” he asks.

Isabela pretends to examine her fingernails and digs the dirt out of one crescent-shaped nail before she finally says, “Sure, why not. I’m always up for adventure.”

* * *

There’s a knock on the door, and Josephine absently calls out, “Come in.” Rare for someone to knock before barging in. Usually, it’s someone working on construction or one of the advisors to check on the war room. Occasionally, Inquisitor Lavellan will slip in on bare feet to peer at the map on the hewn war table or to “borrow” some Antivan chocolates from Josephine. Either way, people come and go in this vast castle nestled between the mountains, and knocking isn’t something as quite common as she’s come to expect.

Josephine doesn’t look up, but she hears the sound of footsteps that get closer. She adds one final flourish to the letter and places her pen back before she looks up. A greeting is halfway on her lips before she fully recognizes the person in front of her. She’s wearing an even bigger hat than what Josephine remembers, but the sash of bright blue and the gold bedecking her wrists, fingers, and neck are the same. “Ah,” Josephine says rather dumbly.

Admiral Isabela of the high seas dips into an ostentatious bow and even adds in a flourish with her large, feathered hat as she says, “Hello, my lady.”

“Admiral,” Josephine says, stumbling over the word. “Ah, um.” 

Isabela only arches a brow, but Josephine is left fumbling for words. She still has the memory of the  _ Siren’s Call II _ and what exactly she and Isabela did behind closed doors. She’s just not sure if Isabela’s willing to continue the entire ordeal. Still, she dares to hope, and in so doing, she tremulously says, “I have cognac.”

Isabela breaks out into a wide smile, and she leans forward towards Josephine, bracing her ringed fingers against the wood of Josephine’s desk. “Does it have character?” she purrs.

“Always,” Josephine says, smiling as well. 

She glances around for some sort of chair to pull out for Isabela, but Isabela simply hops up on an empty corner of Josephine’s desk — a rarity in of itself for Josephine to have spare space on her cramped desk — and swings her lovely tanned legs against the sides of the desk. Josephine swears that she  _ wasn’t  _ staring at Isabela’s lovely tanned legs. She firmly resolves to stop giving adjectives to Isabela’s legs.

“As much as I’d like to spread out on the nearest bed with that cognac — and preferably you too — I believe our mutual friend Varric has an assignment for me,” Isabela says in a far too breezy tone.

“Ah, that bit of business,” Josephine says softly. The mere mention of that makes her remember Haven and the avalanche. The biting cold nipping at her face, the fear thrumming through her heart with an ever-constant rattle, and the world seemingly spinning in the wrong direction for far too long.

Josephine realizes that she’s been silent for too long when Isabela cocks her head at her and says, “Care to explain more?” 

Josephine gets the feeling that Isabela is asking for an explanation on more than just the simple journey that they have to take. She tries to cover it up by asking, “Did he not?”

“Briefly,” Isabela says. She swings a leg out and comments, “But I’m afraid we were too busy gossiping.”

Understandable. Completely understandable. “A habit I wish I could indulge more in,” Josephine admits. “But the job mainly involves sailing up and down the Waking Sea while I curry favor for the Inquisition from various nobles. I lost a number of important documents when Haven fell. I intend to recoup some of that damage, and I need a sailor who is quick and sharp enough to get me in and out.” 

“Sounds good enough, and it makes sense. Still, everyone can indulge every now and then, gossiping included. Why don’t you? I’m all ears, sweet thing,” Isabela tells her.

Isabela’s words make Josephine flush slightly, and it’s something that Josephine knows that Isabela’s already noticed. Isabela’s gaze flicks over to Josephine’s cheeks rather than her eyes like she was looking at originally. Josephine keeps her head up high though. One of the first rules of negotiation: do not let a single mistake ruin the rest of your performance. So, Josephine says, “Part of the job, I’m afraid.” 

“Diplomat and ambassador of the Inquisition,” Isabela muses. “Sounds like something that you  _ would  _ do in your line of work.” She taps her fingers against the desk and considers the office space that Josephine has commandeered for herself. It’s still a bit dusty, and there’s a pile of lumber and caulking in the corner that they brought in to fix the rafters with. But all things considered, it’s not bad. Not bad at all. “Fancy title, isn’t it?” Isabela says.

“Perhaps, but then it’s less gossiping for fun and more dangerous because it’s for work. Besides, the title isn’t quite as admirable as an Admiral,” Josephine quips. She can’t resist a small smile that curls around the corners of her lips.

Isabela narrows her eyes at her and asks, “Did you just crack a joke?”

There’s a glint of merriment in Isabela’s eyes. Josephine has spent far too many years in the art of diplomacy for her to miss something like that, so she shrugs, “Would you like it if I did?”

Isablea grins at her. “I knew there was something about you that I liked,” she chortles.

Isabela sways back and forth when she laughs, and Josephine finds it mesmerizing. So mesmerizing that she dares to say, “I thought that there was more about me that you liked.”

Slippery-dark nights in a cabin with a bottle shared between the two of them, the scent of the ocean’s salt on the breeze, the call of an albatross as it swoops down to barely brush against the waves. Josephine can see Isabela look like she’s far away, likely thinking of the same memories as Josephine herself. “Yes, yes, you’re quite right,” Isabela breathes out. She regains her composure with a lightning speed though, and she pulls herself together by slyly saying, “I do adore the way you look in my bed, tousled hair and lidded eyes and all. Tits out, of course.”

It makes Josephine laugh and say, “So bold, Admiral.”

“I have to be. Comes with the job,” Isabela says. She pauses. “You know, I told you that you were bold the first time I met you,” Isabela says, slow and sweet. “Do you remember what you told me in return?” She waits for a response from Josephine, but quite frankly, Josephine can’t remember quite well. All she remembers is the gleam of Isabela’s blade underneath the grey of twilight and the sound of the waves crashing against the Antivan docks. When Josephine doesn’t reply, Isabela recites for her, “‘I must be if I ever intend to get things done.’ One of the reasons why I liked you off the bat and offered you a ride, you know.”

“If I may be so  _ bold _ to say so, I would say that it’s more of a natural part of you, Isabela. A part of your natural flair,” Josephine tells Isabela. She pauses. One second slips past as she holds her breath before she says, “I envy that.”

“You do?” Isabela asks, looking more confused than she has in this entire little meeting of theirs.

Josephine dips her head and answers, “Why, yes. I think we could all do with a little more boldness, myself included. It’s something that I quite admire about you.”

Surprisingly, Isabela flushes. It’s not much — barely a hint of color dusting across her cheeks — but it’s something that draws Josephine’s keen attention. Isabela lets out a soft cough before she softly replies, “Thanks.” She cocks her head to the side and straightens the angle of her hat before she says much more loudly, “Well, are you ready to start gallivanting around the world? Point me in the direction you want to go, and I’ll take you there.”

“Truly?” 

Isabela winks at Josephine and purrs, “Truly, sweetness. Just remember to bring that cognac.”

Josephine nods as she tries to restrain a burst of laughter, but it manages to escape her with a soft chuckle. “Of course,” she tells Isabela. “Of course.” 

* * *

Isabela likes traveling. Don’t get her wrong; she loves the sea in all of its wild, tempestuous glory in more ways than one. The sea was her childhood friend, her path out from a gilded cage in Antiva, and a steady companion despite its tumultuous storms. But now, as she gazes at her map and watches the needle of her compass steadily point northward, she thinks that something about this trip will be different.

The first thing that’s different is the fact that she has to man a different ship. The  _ Siren’s Call II _ is not necessarily the best ship to sail into foreign harbors on diplomatic missions. The Inquisition agreed to give her a ship, a crew, and a budget to work with, and Josephine slid her a ledger with the top registration lines written neatly in her hand. That same ledger lies right beside the map, only a few inches away from Rivain and Antiva drawn on with amber ink. 

She has to be  _ legal _ now. Isabela can’t remember the last time she ever did something legal. She supposes that must have been some random time in Kirkwall, but her time in Kirkwall was less of a legal thing and more of her sidestepping around the laws and slipping through loopholes and almost no one giving a shit about it because there were other things to give shits about. Perhaps that’s a lie though. Isabela knows what she did — can still feel the weight of an old book in her hand, pages heavy with age and the sensation of guilt prickling down her spine — but she tries to ignore it. She’s held heavier things, seen heavier things, paid other prices for things that she’s wanted. And almost everyone she cared about came out of that kerfuffle alive to some degree. 

Isabela tries to count her victories when she must, and that qualifies as half of it.

But now, Isabela turns her attention from the past to the present and ponders the notion of traveling with Josephine Montilyet on a mission for the Inquisition. She supposes that she has to be  _ respectable _ now. Isabela tries to picture what that would be like, and the sound of Aveline’s voice comes unbidden to her mind.  _ Wear clothes that actually cover your underwear, slattern, _ she thinks in the fall and rise of Aveline’s cadence. She can even hear the fondness bleeding through the words, just like Aveline always sounded like. Aveline would tell her to wear proper clothes and straighten her spine until it was as straight as the spears and pikes that the city guard used in their patrols.

Isabela exhales out, long and heavy, and taps her finger against the map. They have to depart from Highever since the Cousland family has offered up one of their best ships. But then, Isabela will have to figure out how to sidestep the storms plaguing the aptly-named Storm Coast and arrive at Cumberland within the span of two days. It’s doable. Isabela’s worked with tighter deadlines before, but still, she has to spend some careful time and thought on it. At least she managed to sneak a few of her crew members aboard. She’ll need Adaar’s skills if she’s to carry Josephine Cherette Montilyet through the storm. 

But just then, she hears the creak of a door. Isabela automatically tenses, and her fingers stray towards the hilt of her dagger. Old habits die hard, and this is a habit that was never going to be dead any time soon. She hears a soft voice cough though, and she hears Lady Montilyet say, “Oh, Admiral, I didn’t expect you to still be up.”

Speak of the devil, it’s the very woman she was just thinking about. Isabela relaxes and turns around with a rakish smile slipping easily over her lips. “Of course not, sweetness,” she replies. She throws in a wink for good measure before she says, “Couldn’t go losing an ambassador in the Waking Sea now, can I?”

“I have far too much confidence in your skill to be worried about anything like that, Admiral Isabela,” Josephine chuckles. She’s not wearing the usual golden blouse or the heavy layers of jewelry. Instead, she’s wearing a simpler white blouse and a ruffled skirt tied with a dark olive sash. The fashion is still thoroughly Antivan in the way that it’s cut and sewn, but the colors are more muted. Less of an Antivan sunset and more of the colors of the vineyards crisscrossing the Antivan countryside. Josephine’s hair is loose and tumbles over her shoulders instead of the usual coiffed bun that the ambassador likes to keep it in for work. It makes her look softer, more gentle, but Isabela’s fairly certain that the ambassador could still defend herself in some manner or form. Regardless, Isabela can’t help but think Josephine looks pretty right now. 

Josephine offers up a small smile as she holds out a glass bottle, whorled and colored. The light from the flickering lantern on the desk casts a soft yellow light on the bottle to illuminate the deep amber color inside, and Isabela looks back up to Josephine’s pretty face. The ambassador smiles — a gentle thing, different than the ones Isabela has seen her wear throughout the day in the Inquisition — and says, “I thought we might like some character for the night.”

“Oh, I’m always in the mood for some  _ character,” _ Isabela replies, voice dipping lower into a huskier register. Isabela can’t help but do it on purpose, and when she does, she finds that it works absolute wonders. Josephine takes a few steps closer, and Isabela extends the crook of her arm for her. “Shall we?” she asks, adopting a more lilted accent than her own Rivaini. It’s terribly pompous and much like the half-brained twits she heard people in Hightown use. It makes Josephine laugh though, and Isabela revels in that.

“Of course, Admiral,” Josephine says, mimicking the same Hightown accent. Then, back in her original Antivan accent, she muses, “Marcher accent, isn’t it?”

“I spent a long time in the Free Marches,” Isabela replies as she leads Josephine over to the other side of the table where there’s some free space. She pulls away from Josephine long enough to rummage for some cups, but Josephine taps her on the shoulder to reveal two cut-glass cups in a little shoulder bag that she has in her hands. 

Josephine sets the cups down on the desk, and the glass clinks softly against the wood. She pops open the bottle, and Isabela leans against the desk to watch with lidded eyes. Josephine pours the cognac — bright amber into glass, like liquid light, Isabela idly thinks — and passes one glass to Isabela before raising her glass to her. “To character,” she chuckles. 

“To character,” Isabela echoes before she downs the cognac. It slips easily on her tongue, and Isabela can already tell that it’s expensive cognac. There’s a lighter flavor hidden in the first burst of alcohol, like something flowering or vaguely citrus, and Isabela makes the second sip slower to savor the taste. 

Josephine cocks her head to the side and asks, “Better than the ale?” She’s holding her own glass of cognac, and the liquid glitters gold, trapped inside the glass and the curl of Josephine’s hand. But the cheeky sparkle in her eye makes all the difference. Isabela can’t help but smile when she sees it.

Isabela snorts, “The ale and this cognac are two entirely different things.” She raises one finger. “But I’d still drink both in one sitting. Also, I thought I was supposed to be the one providing cognac. I do have some, you know.”

Josephine comes around the desk to stand beside Isabela. When she moves, the puffed sleeve of her blouse brushes against Isabela’s bare forearms, but Isabela doesn’t move away. Not yet. Instead, she watches Josephine angle her body towards her and smile as if she was sharing a secret. “That can be for another time, and perhaps I would drink both ale and cognac down too,” the ambassador whispers. “If it was with you.”

Now, she  _ has _ to be doing that on purpose. Isabela knows, knows down in her heart, that she shouldn’t pursue this, that she probably shouldn’t be fucking the ambassador of the Inquisition, that this is bound to be nothing more than messy. But Isabela likes it messy, she likes the unpredictable, the wild, the  _ impulsive _ . It’s like setting out on a journey on the sea; she doesn’t know what to expect, but she expects fun along the way.

And if Isabela fucks it up — like she’s done before, like she will in the future — she’ll dive back into the everlasting sea and pass onward to the next sea port. She’s done it before.

_ “But you came back,” _ she thinks. There’s a voice in her mind that still sounds suspiciously of Aveline, and it says, “ _ You came back to Kirkwall with the Tome. You came back to Rivain, back to Antiva, back to the harbors that cast you off. Can you really leave as easily as you think you can?” _

Isabela bites down the thought as fast as she can. She’s slipped out into the night before, left behind countless pasts in the span of minutes and nights lit only by the scythe-like moon, and let the sea take her wherever it wanted to go. She’s done it before, and she can do it again. 

_ “But is it worth it?” _ the Aveline-like voice asks once more.

Isabela takes another sip of cognac, bigger than the other sips she’s taken before, and lets the alcohol burn down her throat pleasantly before she thinks back, _ “Yes, if you don’t think about the weight.” _

And when she kisses Josephine with the taste of the cognac on her tongue, she thinks about the sea and all the ways to slip out of a harbor unnoticed, to dive into the slick night and sew the seas up behind her to hide her path, and to take the good things while she could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm i've been a lot busier than i would've liked to be, but i managed to scrape together enough spare time to write for a little bit. i feel out of practice haha


	3. Chapter 3

The taste of ocean salt on the air is thick and almost choking. This is nothing like the docks of Antiva where Josephine grew up. In Antiva, the world felt full of light and life, vibrant and effervescent in every way possible from the bustling markets full of colored silks and spices to the sapphire-colored seas that let the sun glint off them in a number of diamond-like flashes. Her mother never let her or her siblings forget about where their wealth came from, and that meant Josephine had to learn something about ships and docks and their natures. She ran bare-foot on a ship’s deck once when she was five years old and didn’t know anything beyond the scope of Antiva. 

Now, Josephine thinks about those days as she slowly circles around the dock. Here, in Amaranthine, everything seems dull. The world is washed over with a haze of thick fog, and the wind is biting and cold. There is no honey-warmth, no summer-spice, and Josephine has to tighten her scarf and wool coat around her tightly. The docks are busy, and instead of Antivan, the sailors call out to each other in thick Fereldan burrs. 

“Now, Ruffles, you ready for this?” Varric asks. He stretches his arms up and cracks his knuckles in the process before he starts swinging his arms and whistling some shanty-esque tune. Josephine doesn’t recognize the melody, but she suspects it’s some sort of Marcher song based on the rhythm. 

“As ready as I must be,” Josephine sighs in response. She raises her hand to give some shade for her eyes as she gazes out at the bustling horizon. There are sailors and dock-workers scuttling around with boxes and ropes, and there are ships sailing out and new ships docking at harbor. Beyond all that, there is the dim blue line of the interminable sea and the thinner green identifying land across the Waking Sea. 

The Iron Bull shifts his feet behind Josephine as he says, “Sounds exciting, if you ask me.” Josephine turns around to look at him, and he only offers up a simple shrug before he adds, “Traveling, seeing new things, and there’s always something more to listen in on.”

Varric sighs, “Somehow, I get the feeling that you’re not coming with Ruffles to be her bodyguard.”

The Iron Bull winks his lone eye and spreads his arms out wide. “No one pays attention to the servants and the workers,” he says with a sly grin.

Varric shifts Bianca over his shoulder and shakes his head.”The Nevarrans might pay attention to a tall Qunari, Tiny,” he tells him. 

The Iron Bull merely shifts his weight over to the left and angles his body towards Varric and Josephine just in time to nudge another sailor past. The sailor swears rather colorfully, but he averts his path away from Josephine. “Hey, I know how to do my job,” he says with a deceptively placid smile.

Varric looks over at the sailor and chuckles, “As a spy or as a guard?”

“Does it have to be one or the other?” Bull asks with the most innocent tone Josephine’s ever heard him muster up.

Josephine cuts into the conversation to say, “No, no, I think not.” She twists the bracelets around her wrist twice before she adds, “I would be happy to have your assistance during this trip, Iron Bull, and I appreciate the fact that you’re taking the time for this.”

“Ruffles, we literally pay him to do his job,” Varric says with a small snort. “Also, Birdie’s already taken Blackwall out to investigate a Warden ruin and Cassandra won’t leave Birdie’s side.”

The Iron Bull arches a brow but he acquiesces to the point and says, “Yeah, I’d like to see what makes Cassandra leave the boss’s side.”

“A grave emergency, I’m afraid,” Josephine answers. A soft smile curves her lips when she thinks about how sweet Cassandra and Inquisitor Lavellan are with each other, and she says, “And I do not think Cassandra would consider a diplomatic meeting to be a grave emergency. Certainly important, yes, but I believe Lady Pentaghast would much rather prefer combat than a diplomatic journey like this.”

“Besides, I don’t think you’ll get the Seeker to willingly sit down to a dinner with her extended family even if you paid her a thousand gold,” Varric laughs. Josephine can’t help but let out a little laugh at that. The very idea of Cassandra willingly attending an event held by another Pentaghast was so incredibly incongruous with what Josephine knew of the woman. 

“And that’s why you’re bringing me,” Bull says. He points out to the docks and adds, “Speaking of journeys, our ship’s ready.”

Josephine follows the line to where Bull is pointing and sees the ship that Highever is loaning them. The Inquisition banner flies high above the ship’s crisp, white sails. Josephine gathers up her skirts and begins to navigate the busy docks. She side-steps around sailors and narrowly avoids a number of cargo being loaded on various ships all while softly saying, “Excuse me, pardon me.”

Isabela is already on the deck of the ship, calling out orders in a crisp tone. Josephine can’t help but admit the fact that the sound of her voice sends a shiver down her spine, but with all things considered, she thinks that at this point, it’s a given fact, a factuality carven out in complete certitude, that Admiral Isabela of the high seas makes Josephine feel like a lovesick school girl again. When Josephine really thinks about it, it makes her feel like her own sister, Yvette. Yvette was always one for such romantic fancies — dresses of silk and satin, pearls slipped between hands, kisses exchanged under a full moon — and although Josephine can’t help but admit that the sentiment is a pretty thing, it is what it is. Sheer sentimentality. Josephine doesn’t  _ have _ the space for sentimentality in her. She has numbers and connections and accounts and favors stacked up in her mind and flowing through her thoughts instead.

Or so she thought.

“Welcome aboard,” Isabela says breezily when her eyes land on Josephine. She strides over on sure legs and tips her wide hat towards her. The huge plume of the feather sways with the motion, and Isabela winks at her cheekily. “Once again.”

“Once again,” Josephine agrees. Her lips curve up with a grin of her own as she asks slyly, “Will I be tying down ropes and hauling cargo again?”   


“It builds character,” Isabela returns. There’s a glint in her eye that Josephine oh so likes the look of. Isabela’s voice drops low in pitch as she murmurs, “And I can think of far more things that build character if you care to know, Ambassador Montilyet.”

“Not in public, Rivaini,” Varric snorts. “Keep it on the down-low; we have to be respectable now.”

“Since when were we  _ ever _ respectable, Varric?” Isabela shoots back. Her grin turns a tad bit lopsided as she swings an arm around Varric and gestures dramatically across the sea. “Even when Hawke landed in Hightown, we still slummed it in the Hanged Man and in Darktown. You might be able to put a bow and dust off a thing, but the thing’s still the thing no matter how much time passes. Maybe you, but not me, Varric. Not me.”

Josephine blinks a little at that. Isabela’s tone is light and still cheerful, but Josephine’s not quite sure if she agrees with that statement. 

“Rivaini, Rivaini,” Varric chuckles. “You and me, we both clean up pretty nicely.”

“You know what I mean,” Isabela tells him. She glances over at the Iron Bull and drawls, “And now, look at who we have here. Didn’t expect you to bring company.”

“Admiral Isabela,” the Iron Bull says, slow and stretched out. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” His lips twitch up into a smile, and Josephine instantly sees the note of danger that whets the edge of his smile and turns it into something dangerous. She’s always known that he was Ben-Hassrath — he’s never made any attempt to hide the fact and openly told the Inquisitor — but here, on the deck of the ship and surrounded by sea-salt breezes and the whip-snap of the Fereldan wind, Josephine can see the lines of Bull’s face turn sharp. 

When she looks over at Isabela, she can see a sober kind of awareness settle deep into the darkness of her eyes. When she looks over at Varric, she can see a quiet note of alarm settling into the smile-lines of Varric’s face. Now, Josephine realizes that everyone present is fully cognizant of something that Josephine doesn’t quite know about.

And she doesn’t like that. No, no, she doesn’t like that at all. 

The only thing that she can truly suspect is the Qunari…  _ Incident _ in Kirkwall, as the nobles like to call it. She has no idea how they all connect though. The most she knows aboutThat was how the Champion of Kirkwall earned her title — by averting the crisis — but Josephine doesn’t know much more than that. Evidently, the other three present know. 

She can feel the tension growing in the salty air, so Josephine clears her throat and says crisply, “Admiral Isabela, this is the Iron Bull of the Bull’s Chargers. Inquisitor Lavellan chose him to be my bodyguard on this mission out of her inner circle.” The Iron Bull shifts his feet, and Josephine glances over to him with a lift of her chin. Not now, she wills, and the Iron Bull settles down as silent as the dead once more. Josephine looks back at Isabela who looks at the two of them with a careful, calculating expression. Still, Josephine continues, “The Inquisitor sends her greetings though and apologizes that she could not be here in person or send additional people with me. Please let me know where we can deposit our belongings and we would be happy to assist in any way possible to ease the journey.”

“Of course,” Isabela says. Her gaze drags over to the Iron Bull, and her fingers twitch ever so slightly. However, she doesn’t move her hands towards her daggers nor does she actively kick them off the deck of the ship, so Josephine counts it as a meager victory. “So, you’re not going with us, old friend?” Isabela asks Varric lightly.

Varric gives her a small grimace and replies, “Wish I could, Rivaini, wish I could.”

Isabela claps him on the back and sighs, “We all have our own duties, I suppose. That sounds like something the big girl would say anyhow.”

Isabela takes her leave then to help her crew get the ship ready. But still, Josephine watches, quietly,  _ carefully.  _ First at Isabela’s retreating back. Second at the worried crease that deepens in Varric’s brow. Lastly, she turns her gaze to look at the Iron Bull, impassive in his gaze and who only raises a brow at Josephine in response. 

* * *

Normally, being out on sea would make Isabela comfortable. After all, she’s in her element now with the high tides and the alluring call of the sea. But right now, she still feels tense, almost like a spring that’s been coiled too hard and too tight or a blade that’s been sharpened to a fragile, bitter edge that would break upon first hit. 

In her pocket, she thumbs a strip of red fabric. Something that the usual gang from Kirkwall all shared between them. Fenris wore his on his wrist — the sentiment as bold and proud as he wants to make it — while Aveline, Anders, and Merrill kept them tied on their armor or their weapons. Varric had his on his rucksack, and isabela used to keep hers pinned to a hat. Nowadays, she keeps it in her pockets: out of sight but not out of mind. She knows Varric looked for it on her hat on the first night she was in Haven and when he dropped off Josephine on the deck of her ship. She’s better than Sebastian though. He threw his away when he left Kirkwall. 

She stands with her hands braced against the railing, watching the waves rise and fall against the swaying ship. The night is silent for a night — only the sound of the water and the air — but she hears no footsteps. But then, a voice asks, “Where’s the book?”

There it is. 

Isabela was expecting this in all honesty. Expected it from the minute she laid eyes on him. The Iron Bull has a  _ look _ to him that Isabela can’t quite describe, something about the set of his face and the deeply bright glint in eyes, that set her on edge. It wasn’t quite like what she had seen from Tallis. No, it’s a look that she recognized from the few glimpses of the elite soldiers from the Qunari compound in Kirkwall. Isabela avoided the foot soldiers too as a rule of thumb, but there were a few among the group that made her feel like she was transparent. It doesn’t sit well with her at all. 

Without turning around, she drawls, “Book? Not quite sure what you’re referring to unless you’re speaking of my favorite book.”

The Iron Bull joins her by the railing and asks, “Where is that then?” His voice sounds amused but Isabela suspects that he’s anything but. But then again, she can never tell with his types. 

“My extensive dossier on all the sex positions I can bend my body into is under my cot, and hands off that treasure, thank you very much,” Isabela replies. The words roll off her tongue, easy and smooth, like her lies always do. 

“Interesting,” Iron Bull says. “But you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

And now they’re getting to the thick of the matter. Isabela tips her head back to gaze at the star-splintered sky and says, “Yes, yes, of course. It’s so difficult to think of all of my favorite books when our dear mutual friend, Varric, has written so many raunchy novels.” She snorts a little bit to herself. “They’re excellent reading fodder to waste away the time with, preferably with a good box of Orlesian chocolates.”

The Iron Bull shrugs and says, “If you want to play games with words, then by all means, we can go ahead and do that. Innuendo, jokes, filler words, all that I can do and more.” His voice drops to a much lower tone, barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. “But we both know what I’m talking about, and I don’t think you’re the kind of person who likes wasting time,” he murmurs. 

Isabela finally turns to face Iron Bull and pins her gaze right on his scarred, sharp face. “You’re wrong then because I do so love to waste time,” she tells him. Her voice still curls downward in tone like she does with all the precursors to her jokes and things like that, but this is much greater than any simple joke or story she’s ever told Varric or Hawke. 

“Not that kind of wasting time,” Bull clarifies. His voice is less of a voice and more of a rumble now as he continues, “You loot and pillage and steal and fuck because it’s something that gives you a thrill that distracts you from other things you don’t want to think of as much, that makes you  _ different _ than what you were before.” 

“Whoo boy,” Isabela says. She lets a long whistle after that and tacks on, “I didn’t think I was going to get psychoanalyzed tonight.”

He gives her a brutal smile. “A bad habit of mine.”

“I bet,” Isabela snorts. 

He spreads his hands wide and asks, “So, are we going to cut straight to the point or are we going to dance around it like a pair of Orlesians?”

Isabela crosses her arms. “It’s not in my hands anymore,” she says. “I passed the damn book off to someone else in Ostwick and hightailed it back to Kirkwall.”

“But you had the Tome with you when you returned to Kirkwall,” The Iron Bull crisply replies. He arches his remaining brow and says, “You loved her enough to bring it back to save her in the only bargain you knew how, and she loved you enough to kill the Arishok for it.”

Isabela stiffens. Oh, that sly  _ bastard _ . 

“She did it to save a city, not to save my sorry ass,” Isabela returns in the lightest, smoothest voice that she can possibly muster up. “I might be pretty but pretty lil me isn’t enough to cover all the damage and the loss from that choice.” The grin fades from her expression as she says quietly, “I’m not worth the weight of gold it took to repair all that shit whether it be her broken body or the broken city.”

The Iron Bull lets out a soft chuckle. “Ah yes, that’s right. The Champion has a lover which isn’t you. It’s that elf from Tevinter.”

And he knows that he pushed a button there, knows it from the stiffness of her shoulders and the edge of her smile. Hawke and Isabela were a messy affair at best. Nothing more than a thing slapped together after too many drunken nights at the Hanged Man. Isabela admits that she was the first to dump Hawke and to kick her out of her bed. Isabela did what she did best in that situation: slip back into the sea and forget. Not that she did a good job of it. The Iron Bull’s right. She came back. But Hawke moved on and Isabela only came back in time to see the aftermath. The red fabric feels like a stone weight in her pockets.

“You know quite a lot,” she says, stilted and ridged and cold. 

He shrugs again and says, “I’m Ben-Hassrath; it’s in my job description. And what I know about you and the Champion and what happened in Kirkwall is enough for me to know exactly when you’re lying.” He pauses and then gestures to himself. “That and a good deal of personal skill.” He settles himself back into a deceptively relaxed position against the railing and says, “So, I’ll say it one more time and only one more time. Where. Is. The. Tome.”

“I passed it on to someone who needed it more than I did,” Isabela tells him. It’s the most honest that she’s been all night. 

“And who would that someone be?”

Isabela shrugs. “Don’t know. That’s as much as I know too. Take it or leave it.”

He straightens. Settles his face into a placid facsimile that Isabela  _ knows _ is false. Smiles at her with his expression almost insipid. Isabela doesn’t like one bit of it. “That’s that then,” he says. “Just one more thing.”

“What could it  _ possibly  _ be?” Isabela asks sarcastically. 

The Iron Bull glances at Isabela and with a pitying look, he says, “Don’t do the same thing to Ruffles like you did to your Champion.”

He turns to leave and takes a silent footstep forward before pausing. “You’re not worth the wait for her,” he says simply. 

Isabela stares at him until he climbs back below deck. She stands there for a long time. The sounds of the sea and the wind as well as the low-hanging moons are her only company until she finally returns to her quarters with heavy shoulders. 

* * *

They land in Kirkwall with relatively little incident as far as Josephine knows. Granted, that’s a very thin sliver of knowledge. There’s far more tension than she expected between Isabela and the Iron Bull, but it’s something that she mentally berates herself for. It’s something she should’ve foreseen. 

Still, they land on the docks with little issue, and in fact, the sailors and other people working on the docks welcome Isabela with loud cries and cheers. Isabela’s first mate — the only crew member from the  _ Siren’s Call II _ — also gets her decent share of cheers despite being Qunari. However, when Josephine walks down the plank and onto the docks with the Iron Bull behind her, the cheers quiet. All eyes are trained not on Josephine but on the Iron Bull. 

“Kirkwall doesn’t forget anything,” Isabela says lightly. Josephine glances over to her, and Isabela merely inclines her head to her. “Took ‘em a while to get used to Adaar over there. Can’t blame them either. We all had to watch the city get trashed and burnt and all that nasty business.”

“I heard of the Qunari incident,” Josephine murmurs. “But I would think that they would be more wary of mages considering the…”

“Chantry exploding in our faces?” Isabela finishes. Her lips quirk up in a wry smile and she says, “But the mage who did that kept almost the entirety of Darktown and half of Lowtown healed for free. The angriest people about it are from higher up. They almost always are.”

A tall guardwoman shoulders her way through the crowd, and her stern face opens up with a brilliant smile when she sees Isabela. “Oh, you slattern, back at it again?” she calls out. 

Isabela gives her a lazy salute and says, “Good to see you too, big girl.”

The woman crushes Isabela in a great hug and pulls back to study her face. “You’re in one piece surprisingly,” she says. She looks over at Josephine and then back to Isabela before she asks, “Varric didn’t come with you?”

Isabela shakes her head. “Inquisition business,” she tells her. “He’s managed to work his way into another mess. I’ve still got a load of the usual supplies for the city below deck though as well as some of your requisitions.”

The woman lets out a heavy sigh and wryly says, “The man has a talent for getting into trouble. As do you and Hawke and—“

“Most of our friends,” Isabela finishes. She gestures to the woman and says, “Lady Montilyet, let me introduce you to Guard Captain Aveline Vallen, the strongest woman in all of Kirkwall and with balls of steel.”

Her breastplate is scuffed and beaten up with what seems to be years of wear and tear, but the metal still shines with good maintenance. Likewise, the pommel of her sword looks well-used, but the leather wrapping over it is still well-maintained. There’s a small red strip of fabric tied to her belt, and Josephine recognizes it as the same red that Varric keeps tied onto his rucksack. Hawke’s red, Josephine thinks.

When hearing Isabela’s words, Guard Captain Vallen’s ears go bright red, and she smacks Isabela on the shoulder.  _ “Hush,” _ she whispers to her. 

Isabela’s grin only widens as she laughs, “I never lie, big girl. That’s the truth and nothing but the truth.”

“As if,” Captain Vallen snorts. “You’ve never told the truth in your entire life.” 

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Isabela returns. There’s a rare softness to her expression as she says the words, and Josephine finds her gaze drawn back to Isabela rather than paying attention to Aveline Vallen. When Isabela notices her looking though, her grin returns to its usual exuberance. 

“Well then, I received a letter from Varric saying that you were going to stop by,” Captain Vallen says. “We’ve got some rooms set aside for you in Lowtown. Apologies about that, we’re still in the process of rebuilding Hightown.” Her face creases into a frown and she finishes, “And the Prince of Starkhaven arrived a few hours before you did, Lady Montilyet.”

“Bet the people aren’t too happy about that,” Isabela mutters. “Damn man spends a good decade or so in this place and then brings an army to siege it the minute he leaves.”

The guard captain grimaces but does not deny it. Josephine glances between the two and silently thanks the Maker and all the stars for having the prudence to send over diplomats before Haven. At that point, she still had some useful documents in the Free Marches to utilize, and the Herald’s signature as well as the promise of several Breaches sealed in certain cities were enough to make Prince Vael stand down, albeit temporarily. Leliana’s informants said that he was still gathering resources for a war though. 

“Thank you, Guard Captain Vallen, and please don’t worry,” Josephine tells her. She smiles warmly and gestures over to the ship as she says, “We’ll only be here for a couple of days, and I suspect that the Prince will leave almost immediately after our brief discussion is over.”

That’s a bit of a lie. She does suspects that Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven will take his leave as soon as he can, but she doesn’t think that their discussion will be brief. In fact, it likely will be anything but. She may not be involved in Free Marcher politics as much as she’s entrenched in Antivan and Orlesian politics, but she knows that the tension between Starkhaven and Kirkwall is thicker than anything else in the Free Marches. The Inquisition cannot afford to have a war across the Waking Sea; they’re already fighting a war against a Tevinter magister and enduring the civil war across the border in Orlais. Josephine needs to settle this as much as she can in order to get the resources and favors she needs from the Free Marches again. 

Captain Vallen leads them through the docks and towards a series of streets that bend and twist in the most peculiar of ways. They turn at unnatural right angles before sharply careening over to the other side, and Josephine can’t imagine why anyone would build a city like this. The sides of the city rise up around them, casting them in soft shadow despite the morning sun. 

Josephine once visited Kirkwall long before the explosion at the chantry, and she distantly remembers walking through the streets of Hightown with an Orlesian diplomat that she had a meeting with. Now, Josephine walks the understreets and looks up to see a lack of white walls where Hightown used to be. There is still the usual noise of the city — people talking and haggling, the sound of footsteps — but there is little laughter and there is a somber kind of bitterness that settles over the general atmosphere of the city. Dust coats everything thoroughly, and there are still larger chunks of rubble and debris lying around that are too big for people to clear out.

“Bear with us for a bit,” the captain says with a wry smile. “We’re still settling.”

“It’s better than what it used to be though,” Isabela offers. She thrusts her hands in her coat pockets as she jauntily steps forward. “Maybe dust will be the new trend, Aveline, the new  _ aesthetic _ of the Free Marches and all that.”

Aveline snorts a bit but continues walking. Josephine glances over at the Iron Bull who steadfastly keeps a rather disinterested look on his face. Every now and then, his gaze will flick around, and Josephine knows that he’s mentally categorizing every detail he sees. He notices her looking and arches a brow. Josephine shakes her head and continues on. 

They settle her in a room at a rather dusty, downtrodden tavern called the Hanged Man, and Josephine recognizes the name from all the stories that Varric used to tell. She doesn’t think Varric quite managed to capture the sheer seediness of the place in his stories, but there’s not much else she can settle for. Hightown is in shambles, and they can’t use the Viscount’s Keep or, Maker forbid, the Chantry as a meeting place. Josephine is almost certain that Prince Vael will figure out some way to mention that in their meeting. Josephine may not be able to rebuild a destroyed Chantry to satisfy him, but she’ll figure something else out. She always has.

Aveline points down the hall to a door and says, “That’s where you’ll be staying for the night.” She jerks her head over to the door that they’re standing by and continues, “But this is where we decided to have the meeting place. It used to be Varric’s old room, but it’s the biggest and most private room we have left that’s easily guardable. I’ll keep a rotation of guards going, and I see you already have a bodyguard with you.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Aveline,” Isabela tells her. She pats the daggers sheathed on her belt and says, “I’ll keep Miss Montilyet safe.”

Bull leans over to Josephine to murmur, “There’s a rotation of Inquisition forces as well. We’ve got some of Leliana’s scouts and Cullen’s soldiers with us too. Keep your eyes wide open though, Ruffles. Window in this room leads out to the left alley based on the tavern layout. Careful.”

“Of course,” Josephine breathes out. In a louder voice, she says, “I’d like the Iron Bull with me inside and one of Leliana’s agents outside the room, Watcher perhaps. Admiral Isabela and Captain Vallen are, of course, invited to join in.” She hesitates before looking at Isabela and says, “I would welcome your company.”

Isabela flashes her a bright grin and says, “Wouldn’t say no for the world.”

Josephine’s lips tug up into a smile, and she smoothes out her skirts and tugs at her puffed sleeves to make sure that they’re straight. Then, she straightens her back and reaches over to rap on the door.


	4. Chapter 4

When Josephine walks inside, Prince Sebastian of House Vael stands up and strides over to proffer his hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Lady Montilyet,” he says. There’s a thick Starkhaven brogue in his voice. Josephine expected it to be much lighter, especially when considering all the recent time he spent in Kirkwall instead of Starkhaven.

“A pleasure as well, your Highness,” she replies back smoothly. 

Prince Vael reaches over to pull out a chair for her before returning to his own seat. There’s a table set up in the middle of the large room, and a desk and small bed have been pushed far off to the side. There’s a bookshelf that’s also been pushed over to the other side of the room, and journals stack the empty space in the shelves. There are a few letters and documents crammed between them, and at the very top of the bookshelf, a few of Varric’s classics like  _ Hard in Hightown _ and  _ Swords and Shields _ are there.  _ The Tale of the Champion _ is notably lacking among his works.

Josephine settles herself in her seat as does the Iron Bull, Isabela, and Aveline. Sebastian returns to his seat, and Josephine studies him carefully. Instead of traditional Starkhaven garb, he’s wearing white armor adorned with gold that’s been polished until any bit of light gleams upon it, and he wears that infamous belt of Andraste that Varric always used to joke about. There is a crown on his head and over his shoulders, he wears a mantle pinned with the seal of Starkhaven: all representative of a man who wants to emphasize his ties to Starkhaven. He has no bow nor quiver of arrows, but all the armor is there. Josephine would not be surprised if he had his weapons nearby. Perhaps not in this room directly, but it should be somewhere in the near vicinity. 

Beside him, there is a lady with dark red hair and gleaming armor, and she also greets Josephine by curtsying and saying, “Belinda Darrow of Starkhaven. A pleasure to meet you as well, Lady Montilyet.” She takes her own seat and looks at Josephine to say, “We’ve heard quite a bit about the Inquisition in Starkhaven.”

“Good news, I hope,” Josephine offers. She knows it’s anything but. Starkhaven has no kindness for the Inquisition after the Inquisitor and Varric threw in their lots with Kirkwall. Leliana’s agents found incriminating evidence of a planned invasion of Kirkwall as well. 

The other man beside Sebastian introduces himself as Seneschal Granger, and Josephine eyes him carefully. Leliana’s reports about him are not exactly favorable, and Josephine is less inclined to trust a man who resorts to torture as the first method of extracting information rather than a simple interrogation.

“How was your journey here, Lady Montilyet?” Sebastian asks. His tone is pleasant enough, but Josephine is always on her guard. She cannot afford not to.

“Lovely, thank you for asking,” she replies. Her gaze drifts over to Isabela, and she smiles as she adds, “Admiral Isabela did a fine job in steering us to shore.”

Isabela blinks a little at the mention of her name, and her posture straightens up a touch when Josephine ends her sentence. A small smile plays around the corner of her lips while a proud glint creeps into her eyes, and Josephine is glad to see it.

The seneschal seems to take a different opinion on that though. “Really now?” he sneers. “Last I heard,  _ Admiral  _ Isabela did not have a ship at all. What was it called again, your Highness? I find that I don’t seem to remember it within our legal registry of ships.”

Sebastian looks tired rather than irritated at his seneschal’s unwarranted comment because he simply sighs out, “Granger.” He slowly turns his head to fix Granger with a long, unwavering gaze. 

The seneschal bobs his head and says, “Of course, your Highness.” He doesn’t seem apologetic in the slightest. 

“Forgive my seneschal for his overtness. Returning to Starkhaven has been a learning curve for us all,” Sebastian says. He eyes Granger again, and now, Granger actually has the decency to look somewhat guilty. “I brought Ser Belinda Darrow and Seneschal Granger with me to help discuss our diplomatic relations with both the Inquisition and Kirkwall.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Ser Belinda Darrow says in an even thicker Starkhaven brogue than Sebastian’s own. “Before the Chantry…” Her voice trails off as she searches for the right word, and finally, she chooses to say, “After the incident at Kirkwall, I was supposed to join the Templar Order.”

Isabela leans over and props her elbows up on the table as she drawls, “Don’t know if you’ve heard but the Order’s in a bit of a kerfuffle right now.”

“Isabela,” Aveline warns in a tone that rivals Sebastian’s own when he says his seneschal’s name.

Isabela lazily flicks her hand out and waves it towards the general direction of Hightown. “I’m not wrong, you know,” she tells Aveline.

“I know,” Ser Belinda says almost despondently. Josephine examines her expression and finds that Ser Belinda is almost completely an open book. It is a rather politically poor decision to bring someone like that to a diplomatic meeting, and Josephine isn’t sure what Sebastian is aiming at. “I’m afraid that the once-noble Order has fallen apart dramatically,” Belinda continues. “There are a number of pockets of Templars struggling to rebuild though.”

“Ser Darrow,” Josephine begins. She tries to choose her words delicately, but there is nothing delicate about the news she has. “Have you heard about the news from Therinfal Redoubt?” 

Belinda’s expression falls completely. She truly is an open book. Josephine exchanges a look with the Iron Bull — something that she suspects Sebastian and Granger will not miss — but Belina says, “Yes, I have, Lady Montilyet. It was saddening and disappointing news at best. To have so many Templars….disappear so suddenly is quite peculiar.”

“I was there at Therinfal Redoubt with the rest of my Chargers,” Bull now says. He looks over to Josephine who nods almost imperceptibly before he continues, “We were sent by the Herald to investigate the area. There were traces of demonic activity and red lyrium everywhere. Whoever those templars were, I doubt they’re the kind of templars you want any longer.

“So that is the crux of the issue,” Sebastian crisply says. “I and the rest of Starkhaven would prefer to see the Chantry, the Order, and the Circles back in their proper condition to restore the peace within the Free Marches.” He gestures to the window and then to the general direction of the now-destroyed Chantry and continues, “You have already seen the damage done to Kirkwall at the hands of the rebel mage terrorist, Anders. Months have passed since that incident, Lady Montilyet, and  _ still _ the people of Kirkwall suffer.”

“We are rebuilding,” Aveline bites out. Her hands are clenched in her lap, and Isabela has to reach out and lay a hand over Aveline’s fists. “We are healing,” Aveline tries to say in a lighter tone, but Josephine can still hear the hardness and grief under the words.

“But the debris and the deaths still lay at your hands, Guard Captain Vallen,” Sebastian returns. His face is impassive, but his words and tone are sharper than the keenest arrow. “How many of our friends and family did we have to dig out?” he asks. He presses a hand to his own chest and says, “I almost died myself at the Chantry had I not been out on an errand.” His expression now hardens. “You and Isabela and the rest of us all know very well that we were complicit in the deaths of many by helping Anders. I simply seek to avenge those dead and then to restore peace.”

“And you think invading Kirkwall is the solution to that?” Aveline retorts. “You think that’s what  _ Hawke _ would want? To think that you ever considered us to be your  _ friends. _ Hawke would be  _ ashamed.” _

“Now, now, ladies and gentlemen,” Isabela cuts in. Her tone is as blithe as she can make it, but the tension in the room is thicker than ever. “No need to besmirch the good name Hawke with whatever we superimpose on it. Let’s just focus on what we’re trying to get done here.”

Josephine gratefully takes the open opportunity and says, “Yes, I agree. The Inquisition understands that both Kirkwall and Starkhaven are in difficult positions, but we would like to offer our aid in brokering a mutual peace.”

Besides, Josephine can’t cast more of her net out in the Free Marches with Starkhaven in the way. By all rights, Josephine should’ve kept the entirety of the Free Marches entangled up with favors to her and nobles to connect to, and with the Inquisitor being a Free Marcher as well, this is the prime place for Josephine to start rebuilding the Inquisition’s reputation. She needs Starkhaven to stand down, and by this point, she’s willing to negotiate with Sebastian for hours if need be. 

Prince Vael leans backs in his chair and tents his hands together. “What do you mean, Lady Montilyet? What could the Inquisition possibly offer to amend the situation we have on our hands?” he asks.

Good. Something that Josephine can answer. “Inquisitor Lavellan does not intend to rebuild the Circle nor does she intend to rebuild the Templar Order,” she begins. “But we can offer our support in the rebuilding process. Inquisitor Lavellan believes in rebuilding communities and solidifying the people from the ground up.” Josephine lets her lips twitch up into a smile that reveal the points of her teeth, just like how Inquisitor Lavellan does it. “Because, your Highness, you must understand that peace does not come with the reinstitution of certain buildings or organizations. It comes with the hands of the people in the city, and we at the Inquisition firmly believe that the best way for the Free Marches to return to a stable, peaceful state is to prioritize the people.”

That gets Aveline’s attention firmly, but it makes Seneschal Granger scowl deeply. “And what if the people are terrible, riotous, uneducate, filthy folk?” he complains. “Peace does not come at the hands of many, peace comes with the leadership of the few!” 

“Darling, what do you think happened here then?” Isabela says. Her voice is clear, and her tone is sweet as sugar. Her eyes are anything but though. “Order came mostly from the little people. Want proof of that? Look at Hawke.”   


The prince looks away from both Isabela and Aveline, and while he steadily avoids their gazes, he says, “Lady Montilyet, I apologize if this is an insult to the Inquisition, but pray tell, what success does the Inquisition have to offer? A brand new institution, barely out of the wreckage of Haven, has very little to offer.”

Josephine shakes her head. “Your Highness,” she begins. “The Inquisition is new, I understand. It is difficult to invest in or trust an organization so new in its making, but physical resources are not the only thing the Inquisition has to offer. We offer  _ hope.” _ She takes a breath and silently hopes that Inquisitor Lavellan never hears about this. She continues, “You out of all people should know the faith and hope that the Chantry inspires, and with Andraste’s Herald leading the Inquisition, we can restore the order and peace that you wish for. After all, the Herald is a Free Marcher herself and would like to help her home.”

Josephine doesn’t add in the part where the only devout thing that Lavellan does in relation to the Chantry is to avoid it at all cost. This is the kind of argument that she tends to pull out for religious-minded folk like Sebastian. It tends to sound better out of someone like Cassandra, someone who genuinely believes in the possibility of good through faith. Josephine has her own share of faith in the Maker like any other person, but for the time being, she prefers to place her faith in people, not gods. 

The prince sits stiff-still for a second, but then, his shoulders slump. “Perhaps,” he says slowly. “Perhaps.”

Success.

Perhaps not now, but soon. Josephine knows she’s made a chip in the prince, and that’s all she really needs to unravel him. She folds her hands in her lap and says, “Well then, I appreciate the welcome you all have given me in Kirkwall, and I appreciate our conversation. Perhaps we can continue at a later time, perhaps for tea?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says hollowly. “It was a pleasure. Good day then, Lady Montilyet.” He does not acknowledge Aveline or Isabela with anything more than a nod before he takes his leave. His seneschal dips into a silent bow before he follows after his prince. 

Ser Belinda stops though. “Lady Montilyet,” she says. “I know we’ve, ah, all sounded a touch bitter, but it’s been tough in the Free Marches. Demons everywhere, people displaced, resources running out, and now, the Chantry and the Order and the Circle all scattered to the wind. But we mean well. Truly.” She sounds earnest, and she clasps her hands together tightly. 

Josephine stands up and paces around the table to where Ser Belinda is standing. “I understand,” she murmurs softly. She places a hand on Belinda’s shoulder. “The recent events have taken a great deal from all of us. I assure you that we mean well too. We all do. Times simply make it difficult to express that sometimes.”

Belinda nods and then curtsies a little before she follows after the prince. Only Isabela, Aveline, the Iron Bull, and Josephine are left in the room. 

The Iron Bull is the first to stand up aside from Josephine, and he stretches his arms up, almost brushing the ceiling in doing so. “Well he’s not hard to figure out,” he rumbles. “Just a bit of misplaced religious trauma and a large sense of self-righteousness.”

“No, no, he wasn’t,” Josephine agrees. “We can debrief at a later time, yes? I think we all deserve some food and rest after our journey here.”

“I won’t say no to that,” Bull chuckles. “I’ll see what this tavern has to offer. Watcher’ll switch out to Weaver in a few minutes though. Same position, extra guard by your window.”

“Thank you, Bull,” Josephine sighs out.

As he lumbers out the door, he calls back, “No problem, it’s what you’re paying me to do.”

Josephine smiles and quietly says, “No, you do far, far more than what we pay you to do.” She turns to Aveline and Isabela and says, “I apologize for the politics that I’ve brought to your doorstep, Guard Captain Vallen.”

“No, it’s been a long time coming,” Aveline replies. Her shoulders are slumping now too, and as she stands up, the chair legs scrape against the wooden floor. “He’s been looking for any excuse to siege Kirkwall after Anders did what he considered to be unforgivable.” Her expression darkens. “Funny how he says he’s coming to ‘save us all’ when he’s really bringing more destruction to our doorstep.”

“Oh well, we’ve known Choir Boy, and I can’t say I’m not surprised,” Isabela drawls out. She leans her chair back, precariously balancing it on its back legs, and places her legs on the table. “He’s shown up at our doorstep again but with shinier armor and more money in his pockets. Nothing new, nothing new.”

A shadow crosses over Isabela’s face, but Josephine can only catch it for a sliver of a moment. She doesn’t understand why that would mean anything to Isabela, but for now, Josephine files the idea aside and takes her leave from the dim tavern room.

* * *

“So.”

“So,” Isabela returns as she watches Aveline sink heavily into a chair. The room at the Hanged Man is empty now, and Aveline’s armor clanks against the old, scratched wood. 

Aveline doesn’t look up for a while, so Isabela tries again with a little whistle and says, “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has,” Aveline says with a deep, heavy sigh. She looks up, and her eyes are ringed with darker circles and more lines than Isabela remembers seeing. “I didn’t think you would bring the Inquisition out of all things to our doorstep.”

Isabela shrugs. “No one expects the Inquisition,” she replies simply.

And no one really  _ does _ expect the Inquisition. Isabela certainly thought that the Inquisition was a mere spark that would fizzle out as soon as it left its hearth, but the Inquisitor — or at the very least, the Inquisitor’s council — is determined to patch together whatever is left of Thedas at this point.

Aveline quirks an eyebrow and says, “But here we are. For once, you’re bringing something useful.”

“Excuse me,” Isabela says with a mock gasp. “I believe that I’ve brought more than my fair share of useful things.”

Aveline narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. “A sex toy from Antiva is not helpful, slattern,” she replies dryly.

Isabela laughs and slides into the chair next to Aveline. “I’m sure Donnic enjoyed using it,” she adds.

Aveline can’t help but laugh at that as well, and she leans on the table with both elbows up. “Oh hush,” she says, and for a brief moment, Isabela can pretend that it’s another night at the Hanged Man. With the easy smile on Aveline’s face, Isabela can imagine Hawke and Varric and Fenris and Merrill and Anders and… And Sebastian, just beyond the closed door, laughing and passing around tankards of stale ale. Then, Aveline’s expression sobers and the fantasy flickers away.

“I joke though,” Aveline says. “The food and supplies you always bring for us has been immensely helpful, especially for everyone that’s been displaced. People are getting antsy about that Qunari mercenary the ambassador brought along though.”

“Can’t blame them. Hard to forget about a whole bunch of horned men burning down your city and goring one of your best friends,” Isabela scoffs. She remembers the glint in the Iron Bull’s eye when he stopped her on the main deck. He might claim to be a simple mercenary but there is nothing simple in that man. 

Aveline glances towards the door and wistfully says, “Hawke wasn’t everyone’s best friend, was she?”

Isabela leans back in her chair and balances it on its back two legs, only to hide her hand as it drifts down to check and see if that red scrap of fabric is still there. “To every drunk person in the Hanged Man, she certainly seemed like it,” she says to keep Aveline occupied. Her fingers are nimble enough; it’s still there and she lets her hands relax. She cocks her head and adds, “Except for that one drunk guy who tried to make a pass at her. Do you remember how she picked him up and threw him out into the streets?”

“And called him wriggling worm-spawn? Yes, I do,” Aveline snorts, and she smiles again. This time, the smile is smaller, and Isabela can’t quite pretend as easily. 

Aveline shakes her head and raps her knuckles against the table. “Get your boots off the table,” she says. “We have Starkhaven and the Inquisition on our doorstep, and we have to handle it.”

“You seem to think that I have any influence in it,” Isabela drawls. She reluctantly slides her boots off the table and returns her chair to its usual boring position. “I’m just a sailor, sweetness.”

“But you’re the sailor that brought the Inquisition,” Aveline counters.

Isabela shrugs. “So? I’m just a middleman. If anything, you need to talk with the Ambassador and get in her good graces.”

“Which you seem to already be in.”

It takes years of practice at deception for Isabela to not flinch, but she sidesteps it and says instead, “I’m just a pretty face.” 

Aveline narrows her eyes and says flatly, “You have a talent for landing in the beds of powerful women.”

Isabela stiffens a little bit. The last bed in that category that she was in was Hawke’s. The piece of red in her pocket feels like a burning, heavy weight, but the woman that comes to mind isn’t exactly Hawke. Rather, she thinks about the Ambassador and the way her face brightens when she sees Isabela. She hasn’t had someone look at her like that in such a long time: both so innocent and endearing while being clever and brilliant all the same. Josephine Montilyet is a golden woman in every sense of the word, and Isabela does love gold. But the conversation with the Iron Bull flickers in the back of her mind, and Isabela puts a halt to that train of thought.

“I might be making assumptions,” Aveline begins. “But take care of yourself. It’s hard for the people that you leave.”

“The people that I leave?” Isabela repeats. She’s dumbfounded at the phrase. It’s true; there’s nothing that Isabela is better at than running away, but it still stings. Her voice is a little sharper when she says, “But sweetness, the leaving makes them want even more.”

“I know,” Aveline says, hard and cold. “Hawke wanted you when you left.”   


“But she has Fenris now,” Isabela counters. “And the two are thick as thieves now.”

“Isabela,” Aveline sighs.

“I know what you mean and what you’re going to say,” Isabela says. “But don’t worry. I’ve been playing these kinds of games for a long time, and I’m not going to break the little lady’s heart. Well, I might, but I’ll be careful.”

Aveline levels a steady gaze at Isabela and says simply, “One day, it’s going to happen right back to you.”

Isabela barks out a short, bitter laugh as she pushes her chair back. Aveline doesn't stop her from leaving, but Isabela knows that she's watching her with that terrible, pitiful look that she reserves for the most miserable of people. Isabela wonders if she should be proud of being included in that bunch or if she should feel slightly ashamed. She'd rather take Aveline's disdain and grudging looks rather than this kind of slippery, slimy pity that she feels boring into the back of her neck. Isabela slides the chair back in as she prepares to leave, and just before she shuts the door behind her, she murmurs, “Already happened, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow i have so many fics to finish!!  
> me: .....what if i start another one instead of finishing an old one  
> me:......excellent idea, let's start with a pun


End file.
